


Stay of Execution

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Bondage, Canonical Character Death, Come Eating, Comeplay, Dubious Prisoner Sex, Everyone Fucks Benjamin Tallmadge, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gangbang, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgy, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Wet & Messy, Wreck Ben Tallmadge 2k16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: André is gifted something lovely on the eve of his death. Captured, shackled and imprisoned - still there is little a sight more appealing than Benjamin Tallmadge, nude and tied to a table.





	Stay of Execution

**Author's Note:**

> Head The Tags: Points of this fic are of a rather dubious nature and I'd much rather you didn't read it if you are going to be bothered by it.

Somewhere above the canvas roof of the tent, the stars burn in the night sky. They had every night before this one, and surely they must still now - there is no reason for them to have halted their brilliant sparkling. They did not stop on the bloodiest evenings of war, they did not stop for the most senseless of deaths - they will not for him.

No, with his hands shackled behind him to a pole and his bare feet idly dragging across the rough floor, André has no expectation that the stars would cease to twinkle on the eve of his death. Such a thing, he thinks, to know exactly when one must die. 

But to muse on the thought strikes him as inappropriate. Afterall, he has so little time left to live why spend it contemplating what will come forth with a rushing inevitability? He might as well contemplate something better, something less morbid and upcoming. Like the stars. 

He isn’t simple-minded, he knows, should he ask to be permitted to gaze upon them once last time it will be denied. He is to be confined, guarded, and then hanged. All in that precise order, with no room for any additions or deviations from his very busy schedule. At least none that have been planned. 

André rests his head on his own shoulder, tearing his eyes from the ceiling that hides the stars he’ll never see again and instead looks down at the scuffs on the floor and dirtiness of his own feet. 

They never returned the boots where they found the West Point plans, but he finds it the most reasonable course of action. 

He wouldn’t, if he were in their place. 

If he were in their place, young Tallmadge would be sitting, just as he is, bound and alone in the cold. 

Now there was something to muse on in his final hours: Tallmadge. Smart, very smart - as much so as he seems brave. He saw through their plots and schemes and perhaps it was a touch of luck or maybe just so much skill that he ousted André and Arnold (ah, something he doesn’t wish to think about  _ Arnold.  _ Probably entangled now with Peggy, if she misses him at all like he misses her). 

Tallmadge, however, was also striking. André only had a few short minutes with him but the impression was lasting. Sharp blue eyes so full of seething and rage and brilliance - a lean body under a too-tight uniform. André shifts in his bindings, perhaps this is not the best topic of thought but he cannot stop his mind from wandering.

He’d even seen the Marquis from time to time - in a similar fashion. A smile that made his chest ache, a fineness to his features that made the rest of him react in a similar manner. Caught in his own improper thoughts, André attempts to tamper them down as footsteps approach. It would not assist in the comfort of his captivity if someone were to find him idly wondering how those very pink lips would feel against his own. 

It is entire plausible that the steps are moving past him - somewhere to another part of camp - and André certainly hopes it is such. He cannot think of a single, good reason as to why anyone would pay visit now. Yet, the steps stop before the tent and there is a back and forth of discussion with a voice that only hardly strikes him as familiar. 

There is a shuffle, and two guards lift the flaps of his tent for an immaculately-uniformed officer. At least his is familiar, one of the Rebels that André would like to believe has not come to rough him up before he is sent to the gallows. Along with the Marquis and Major Tallmadge - this is yet another officer that André had found charming. Hair plaited carefully, smile welcoming despite his greeting to a prisoner. A prisoner sentenced to die before the next day is gone. 

“Major André,” he greets, his head bowing respectfully. 

“Colonel Hamilton.”

The tent falls shut behind him. There is a shuffle outside that sounds suspiciously like guards leaving. He cannot let his hopes rise, however.

“You have been summoned to the headquarters of his Excellency, General Washington for further discussion of Benedict Arnold's involvement with the Royal Army.”

Of course. André lets his head hang before he nods, leaning back slightly so that he may push himself back up to a standing position. The rough wood of the pole bites into his back - but he tries not to show pain against it, tries not to show weakness.

“Allow me,” Hamilton offers, procuring a key, and taking the liberties to unwrap André’s shackles from the pole and re-attach them swiftly once he has finished. There is a gentle push to his back once André is properly standing, urging him forward. “He does not like to be kept waiting, Major, as I am sure you understand.”

Of course he understands, but he doesn’t say such. Once the flaps are parted by one of Hamilton’s hands (as he reaches over André’s shoulder, one hand wrapped around the middle of his bindings, his chest pressed against his back. Very warm,  _ very  _ close), he is too enamoured by the sight of the skies to pay much mind to a proper response. 

It is just as he suspected. 

The stars burn bright and beautiful - and tomorrow he will still die. 

“I fear all of what you know regarding General Arnold’s betrayal is all I know of it, you will not garner new information from me, sir.”

“I will let General Washington decided that.” There is a particular amusement in Hamilton’s voice that André does not quite understand. He has given all he can, all he is wont to give, and still they summon him in the depths of the night - when even the campfires have turned to ash and cinder around them. Is this some cruelty of the rebels? To torture him before his death? He will not let the sudden rise of fear show upon his features as they approach the headquarters.

Surely, he tries to tell himself, surely if they were to do such a thing, they would remove him to the woods. Where he cannot wake the camp with his screams. 

They wouldn’t wish to bloody the floor of the manor, would they? 

They stop before a door. Innocuous in nature and yet in context, wholly terrifying. A mouth comes to rest, breathing hot at his ear, “Try to reign your terror, Major, it is unbecoming of a gentleman. What lies beyond this door is nothing but a gift, an honor, one of which we wished to bestow upon you before tomorrow rises.”

André finds himself swallowing thickly, Hamilton’s voice ringing in his chest. The door creaks open and he’s ushered inside before he has time to fully drink in the scene before him - and it is obvious why. Should anyone else find this sight, someone unpermitted, it would spell the end of Washington’s army. 

The end of this so-called cause.

The end of this pointless rebellion. 

Oh, how he wishes he were not to die tomorrow. Though, he isn’t sure that despite the knowledge he has been given that he would ever, ever dare let it see the light of day.

Washington stands, as tall and powerful as every person who had dared meet him this close has told he is, towards the back wall. Face impassive and arms crossed over his chest. He is still in his uniform, hardly sparing André a glance when he’s walked in by Hamilton. 

Hamilton guides him down, muttering, “kneel.” He would resist, he should resist, but the rest of the scene has him so enthralled he can do nothing but fall to his knees with his hands bound behind his back and watch. Watch as the Marquis, the very same man André’s idle mind had wandered to, strokes a young, naked, man from nape to tail. This man, bared and pale and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, is bound to a table in the middle of the room. 

His legs forced apart, bound to each leg of the smoothed table exposing all of him to the entire room. His hair is undone, falling over his face and shielding it from his view. André tries to avert his eyes, out of politeness and confusion, but a thin-fingered hand grabs his chin and brings his face back up to the sight in the center of the room. 

“Look upon him, Major, he requested this.” For a moment, he isn’t sure which he Hamilton refers to. Surely, the Marquis may have thought of him - but that idea is thrown from his mind when the man strapped to the tables head shifts, and André is met with a familiar gaze. Though no longer sharp and accusatory - instead it’s dulled and softened and so full of something.

Wanting.

Ah. It would seem the Marquis is not the one who requested this. André shifts on his knees, dragging his eyes shamefully down the exposed body. 

“Major André, way we call you simply André is this endeavor or do you prefer John? There is no need for rank, no need for fights, when we are but carnal things,” the Marquis offers, curling his fingers down Tallmadge’s body - between his spread legs. The young man's back arches smoothly as he does something out of André’s sight.

His heart is thudding so unbelievably in his ears, and all he can do is nod and whisper, "André."

The response comes, “Then now, simply call me Lafayette - Gilbert if you wish, even.”

It’s too much, too familiar, so André echos, “Lafayette.”

He hums in understanding, however, making no comment on his decision to at least keep up some realm of formality. “Hamilton, Washington,” and his eyes - falling down to where Tallmadge is flexing and tensing against his bindings as Lafayette does something still with his hand, “Benjamin.”

“You will know him quite intimately, once we have finished,” Hamilton agrees - giving André a sharp nudge to move him to the side. He’s guides to where he can better see what is being done to Benjamin’s body, there - from the angle, he finds a precious thought of his correct. Lafayette has three fingers buried deep in the boy's body - his other hand spreading him apart so that the little audience may see. Though, what he had not expected to witness was the liquid running down the insides of his thigh.

Oils, of course, slip down him - but the streaks of white that well and stain at Lafayette’s fingers had not been anticipated. He’s already been used. Heat builds unexpectedly in André’s groin and his eyes whip around sharply to figure who, who has already taken him? Perhaps it was Lafayette - stripped already of his jacket and left in just his waistcoat and shirt. Or Washington, he could have only undone his breeches and taken Benjamin first - a sign of ownership and pride.

The answer comes before the question: “Benjamin has been so very good for us - he delivered you, he delivered information. This is his reward, what he so desperately needs. First - he took our dear Marquis, at the same time myself into his mouth. Though, some time has passed since there has been a cock inside him. I think he needs it, do you?”

For a moment, André envisions himself in Benjamin’s position. Strapped, unable to do much but writhe and plea - filled with seed until he’s dripping and stretched farther than he ever considered plausible. A sincere fear wells within him - he doesn’t know how Benjamin does it. Allows himself to be taken and used as such, again and again and again.

André couldn’t imagine such a thing without being sick - but Benjamin looks perfectly content there, mewling against the desk between soft puffs of breath as Lafayette slides his fingers into and out of him at an even, slow pace.

Hamilton asks again, “Do you think he needs another, André?”

“Yes.” His voice is croaking and cracked, chipped along the edges - and he realizes this is much less the gift and honor that he had been informed it was. This was a game - something he is more spectator to than he had previously imagined he could ever be. His palms sweat, and he knows it is not just the heat of the room.

Lafayette releases Benjamin’s cheek and begins to unbutton his waistcoat with it instead - pulling his fingers free to strip down to just his undershirt. Benjamin whines and the table shakes as he tries to do… something. Push pack on the emptiness where Lafayette’s fingers used to be, perhaps. 

An oil-and-seed-slick hand joins a clean one to undo the fastenings of his breeches, and André can only hardly pick up on the soothing words Lafayette mutters: “Do not worry, my sweet little thing. Soon you will be so full again, do you wish to feel full? Complete?”

There’s a whimper that sounds like  _ “yes,”  _ and André cannot bring himself to look away as Lafayette presses himself against Benjamin’s body. Beside him there is a sigh and the sound of a hand on flesh and by God, André does not have to imagine what Hamilton is doing. He wishes he could be doing it himself, enraptured by the sight of Lafayette pushing himself into that yielding, willing body, sheathing himself down inch by inch until André can see nothing between their hips. 

Benjamins cries are high and sharp. Moans and pleas unfiltered between his gut and his mouth - and Lafayette wastes no time in setting a breakneck pace that would turn even the most sturdy of mounts into a panting, exhausted beast. But Benjamin takes it - he grips and pulls and twists in vain against his binds, but not to get away - to get closer. André watches in awe, hardly aware of his own painful arousal pressing against his breeches.

He doesn’t know how long he watches - Lafayette anchoring one hand to Benjamin’s hips, the other in his hair to pull back his head - but his eyes only stray twice.

Once, to Hamilton. His hand passing over the length of his cock (so very near, so very very near and André fights down the desperate urge to touch) while he watches the scene with half-lidded eyes. And the second time up to Washington himself - his head tilted as he watches the scene as well. Though, he does it with his arms still crossed and his lower body hidden by Benjamin still - but there is arousal in his eyes. Darkening them, making them churn with a hunger that goes still and cool when he raises them to meet André’s.

Yes. This is a game, and André is most certainly ready to partake. 

Lafayette hits Benjamin particularly deep - pausing at the apex of his thrust with his head tilted back as Benjamin’s lips fall apart in a silent, pleading scream. The rest of his thrusts come in short, shallow bursts making it very evident what has just happened. He shudders, full-bodied and visible from where André is put, when Lafayette pulls his softening cock from his body. If André tilts his head, he can see his hole twitching - desperate and filthy and leaking properly. 

If he tilts his head in another fashion, he can see Benjamin’s cock - swollen and as flushed as the rest of him with the remains of a previous release clinging to his cockhead and he cannot say for certain which view appeases him the most. Though he leans more towards the latter when Hamilton heaves himself up and saunters towards the pleasure-limp body. 

“André, tell me, did he perform admirably.”

“I would think so, good sir. Though it seems he looks to waste what the M-what Lafayette has given him, such a thing should be saved - cherished.” The words that slip past his lips do so without his mindfulness and it seems, as Hamilton cocks his brow, he is not the only person he has shocked. 

“You are correct, André, he is a wasteful little slut - is he not? Benjamin,” the name is punctuated by a sharp slap to the man's flank. He tenses and yelps with the sting but relaxes soon after with a lip-muffled groan, “apologize.”

André had heard Tallmadge's voice before - he spoke sure and strong. Confident in his accusations and his carefully-chosen words. He spoke with all the sureness of the Yale man that he was, albeit just as cocky as he was wont to be. So when he speaks again now, his voice trembling in its entirety and thinned out with desperation and need - it is almost like listening to a wholly new man speak. 

“My, m-my apologies, Marquis.” It is hardly speaking, it is hardly words - it is more a whimper, shivering through the air.

Hamilton does not accept it though and Benjamin yelps with another spank to his opposing side.

“For what do you apologize? Be clear, Benjamin, do not keep us waiting for you to consider how  _ bad  _ you have been.”

The word bad rings something in Benjamin - shifting his body language from content and sated to tense and frightened. André is all too reminded of the behavior of a horse before it spooks. He pulls at his bonds and tosses his head to clear the hair from his sight - eyes scanning wildly as if he were looking for Lafayette. To apologize to his face directly. It is only here that André recognizes the wetness upon his cheeks as tears.

And the heaving of his shoulders as muffled sobs.

“I wasted what you gave me, I let it d-drip from my body - I should have tried harder, sir, I should have been better, sir, I am sorry - I am very, very sorry, sir. I will not waste your seed - should you elect to spend it within my body or up-upon my body or feed it to me - I shall take every drop of your essence, sir, I shall savor it.” He hiccups through his filthy promise and André should be disgusted. At the display, at the words, at the sheer concept of a Major being brought so low as to be used as nothing but a hole for these men to shove themselves into - but Benjamin’s ardor does not flag and, much to his shame, neither does André’s. 

What had Hamilton said? Benjamin needs this - he wants this? 

André still cannot perceive of why - but Lafayette coo’s his approval and Hamilton strokes the rise of his ass and Benjamin melts beneath the touch - his head tilting and his eyes fixating on something across the room. André cannot see the movement of his gaze but he knows, he knows where it lands.

Washington.

Strong and silent, his gaze flickers back down to Benjamin's and he nods - a minute little gesture - and speaks his first words since André entered the room: “Be good for them, Benjamin.”

Ah, yes. Like a pet, André sees now, Benjamin bows before the man who claims him, yielding to his every will. Interesting, perhaps he should have seen it before - Benedict did complain often that Washington paid far more attention to the boy at his heels than he did anything else. If only André knew that it was Tallmadge. 

But now is not the time to muse on what-ifs. Now he is playing the voyeur still to their exhibition game as Benjamin struggles to hold the release of how-many inside himself despite the soft and gentle drags of Hamilton’s fingers. He rubs them slick across Benjamin’s hole, smirking as he struggles against the clear desire to relax and welcome the prodding fingers.

André’s own cock throbs where it remains trapped, aching to be touched by the time Hamilton gives up his playful taunting and removes his fingers to instead tease Benjamin with the head of his cock. The man whimpers and begs with such a lovely voice, full of want and need and André doesn’t realizes his lips is caught between his teeth until he feels the cool pain cutting through his haze of arousal.

Hamilton takes much more time than Lafayette did. He pushes slowly - relishing in every sound that drops from Benjamin’s lips, rolling his hips slowly instead of simply just taking. And he talks - a striking difference between the two men, he praises, he purrs and coos his words - though for whose benefit alone, André is far from sure.

But Hamilton is ceaseless in his babbling, telling Benjamin how tight, how beautiful, how pretty and lovely and warm and slick he is - how he can feel the heat of Lafayette’s release, how he is so good, so very very good. André’s body reacts without his want, and his desperation grows by each phrase and each one of Benjamin's staccato little  _ ah-ah-ah’s  _ and all he wants to do is touch. Feel. Taste.

He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry as Hamilton slows his thrusts without warning and the table shakes again under Benjamin’s attempts to push himself back to correct the pace to something more punishing - and if punishing is what he wishes, it is what he gets. Hamilton’s hand comes down sharp - once over the rise of his ass. 

“Good boys remain still, Tallmadge,” He reminds - through the panting of his voice, “you will get none of what you want if you are bad.”

Benjamin stills with a whimper. And another, louder, when he is spanked again - and again - and again. His rear pink in the candlelight and his body trembling. 

Hamilton is louder when comes his own climax, but not so much as Benjamin is when he finds his own with scarcely a single touch to his cock. He spends upon the floor - no one chiding or chastising him as André had thought they would. Instead, as Hamilton stays within Benjamin, he tells him he has done him well. Performed admirably, even, and perhaps the rules of this game are lost on André - but cannot anticipate what his role is yet. 

Perhaps he is to merely watch? Tormented by what he cannot have? Or is it that he is to - eventually - have a much more active role. He was told he would know him intimately, and André can only assume he means in such carnal fashions. His want is plain, though, clear - and perhaps Lafayette sees it written upon his face as he takes a moment from his viewing to offer up a comfort.

“Soon you will have him as well, André, there is a method to our decisions” he promises, fingers finding Ben’s hair to stroke. From this distance it looks lank, lacking it its luster that André had noted it having before - sweat-drenched, he surmises, as the room now feels stifling and the air hot and thick with the heady scent of sex and exertion. He feels sweat beading at his own temples and drip down his jaw - he’s flushed, he knows this, he knows the burning under his skin but there is no mortification known to him now. Only want, need, desperate, carnal desires.

He feels Washington’s gaze upon him before he looks up to see it - it remains for a moment, full of something unplacable, before it returns to a dutiful watching of the young Major.

“Be good, Benjamin, keep it,” Hamilton tells him as he pulls out - nose pulling his breeches back and fastening them properly. Benjamin struggles - so well used and well-stretched that his body quivers with the attempt and falters in the first few. The release slips from his body, along with a wrecked, pathetic sob - but Hamilton, always described as the quick thinker, drags it back to his hole with his fingertips. 

He pushes it back into Benjamin’s willing body, humming a soft, “Come now, none of that. You’ve done us so well, we are very proud of you.” But it does not quell Benjamins tiny shakes and muffled cries of distress and babbled apologies and pleas for forgiveness that it seems he already has.

André finds he’s been slouching and straightens himself to lean forward - so that he may see better as Hamilton thumbs over his hole while Lafayette wipes the tears from his cheeks and strokes through his hair and leans down to press gentle, chaste kisses to each bit of his face. There is such care in their touch -  such tenderness - before they move away.

They return to flank André instead and for a fleeting moment, he thinks it his go now. But instead, Washington steps forward - halving the strides it would take one man to make it from the wall to the table. His hand, large and rather heavy-looking, strokes Benjamin in a similar fashion as to how Lafayette had upon André’s arrival. It relaxes him all the same, though at the same time stirring a new desperation within him. 

Washington repeats what the others have said, Benjamins has been so good - so talented - so beautiful, and in return, Benjamin whines and fights against his bonds to press into the soft, chaste touch. It, like always, fails and he whimpers desperately when Washington pulls his hand away and situates himself behind him. André assumes Washington would stare at him - make sure he is watching as he stakes his claim over his man - but he ignores him in favor of leaning over the table as well and pressing a sweet kiss to the sweat-soaked skin on Benjamin’s nape.

Then again between his shoulderblades. 

Benjamin’s cry when Washington sheathes himself inside his body is something that will echo in André’s mind until the moment the gallows choke away his last breath. It is a lovely, musical sound that curls into his chest with the faint creaking of the table and the gentle sigh from Lafayette beside him. It is a moment in which André very nearly not only understands the passions behind these rebels - but feels them.

It’s incredible, this singular sight almost enough to prove this rebellion worth something. 

Washington’s thrusts are powerful, strong and sharp and André can see Benjamin swell again against the steady rocking of the table. He steadies a hand on the base of the boy’s spine, pressing him down, keeping him firmly against the wood so that he may not buck or twist to disrupt the rhythm Washington sets for him. 

André has not seen Washington ride into battle - take hold of a stallion and charge through the death and bullets and blood but he thinks the awe one might feel in witnessing such an event would be incomparable to what André feels watching him take Benjamin like this. Riding him hard and mercilessly. His cock comes away slick as he pulls far back on each stroke - the slick sounds of their coupling should be disturbing, not as arousing as it is proving to be.

Washington lasts, his hands moving to take hold of Benjamin’s hips instead of simply holding him down - and André notices for the first time yellowing bruises upon his body. Surely there will now be more - as Benjamin throws his head back and properly wails with pleasure. 

He’s pulling at his restraints and curling his toes against the filthy floor - body taut and back bowed against the ropes. Washington grunts when he comes - the breath after a sigh that curls around Benjamin’s name like smoke drifting up from a snuffed candle. Soft. 

There is a tense moment where André jangles his chains in an attempt to garner some sort of friction upon his aching, neglected cock and the men seem to remember his presence. He had been silent during the encounter he was to bare witness to - so much so that had he stopped breathing not even he would notice himself. 

“I believe,” Washington says - his words measured carefully, “that Benjamin is suitably readied for our guest of honor. Though there is one last matter that must be attended to. Bring Major André here, if you would.”

He steps back and two pairs of hands urge him up by the shoulders - bringing him around to stand behind that well-fucked and dripping body. Benjamin leaks, the game of holding given up, and seed dribbles mixed with oil down his thigh. André stands transfixed by it, his cock still confined to his breeches despite how desperately he longs to be bared and pressing into the willing body before him. Yet with his hands bound, he is simply at the mercy of his captors.

“Would you like to penetrate him?” Washington asks, somewhere behind André.

He nods, responding, “Yes, General Washington. He is a beautiful man, I want for nothing more on the eve of my death.”

There is a hum, low and contemplative, and then a hand at the back of his neck - followed swiftly by a steadily increasing pressure. His knees nearly buckle, Washington continues, “Surely a loyal British officer should not wish to mix his seed with common rebels?” 

It is clear what André is to do - and his mouth runs dry at the prospect. The pressure intensifies and André falls once more to his knees, pulling his back straight so that he may be level with Benjamin’s well-stretched, slick and filled hole. He is quick to begin, as the hand shifts to the back of his head - tangling through his loosened hair to guide him. 

André chases a droplet that falls to Benjamin’s knee with his tongue. The taste is immediately bitter and salty - though not unpleasant enough that he would shy away from the task he is assigned to. He drags his tongue up, following the line formed through a half-slick half-sticky mess until he’s met with the sight ahead once more. 

Benjamin is filthy, disgusting and used and so very, very beautiful. Not even the oil remains, coating his tongue and his palate with a thin film, could dissuade him now. Not with such a feast laid out before him. André sets to it - the hand no longer showing him where to go as he laps at the mess of Benjamin’s rim.

He wishes he could distinguish the taste, know which seed belongs to whom and how each man represents themselves. How would the Marquis taste alone? A man of such high standing, of such beauty and power, would he be sweet? Or Alexander - the scrappy little Hamilton with his smart mouth and clever hands.

Or Washington alone, how would he taste? André groans at the thought, his tongue slipping back as he swallows the oil and seed and saliva. Panting, he presses back, the sound of his own wrecked breathing high and hot in his ears - the only distinguishing person he can taste is Benjamin. Under it all, the taste of skin and sweat and he hounds after it - pressing his tongue deeper and deeper until his nose is buried in the crevice of his rear and he can feel nothing but the hot vice around him. Clenching and unclenching, twitching around him desperately.

Somewhere distant, as though through a thick haze or a veil of water, there are loud, high moans and desperate pleas. But André cannot hear them, he cannot think of them - all he knows is this place. On his knees behind Benjamin, lapping and kissing the seed of his captors from his body greedily, like a dying man seeks redemption. 

A hand fists in his head and his heart sings - hoping it pushes him farther, hoping it holds him there until there is nothing left of him, but he is crushed instead as it pulls back sharply, tearing him from the warm, pliable body. The only connection left between them is a thread of saliva, connecting between his lip and Benjamin. It breaks when he breathes. 

“I am glad to see you appreciate the gift we have laid out for you,” a throaty, lust-riddled voice coos above him. It is Hamilton, stroking his cheek and thumbing along his lip. “It was not an easy decision to make, as you must understand. Benjamin pleaded, we were reluctant to give. You see, sir,” Hamilton pauses, assisting André onto his feet, his legs wobbling fiercely beneath him, “we share Benjamin between ourselves. There was only one man who is missing from this gathering, of whom his touch is known to our dear, sweet Benjamin.”

André does not dare ask who, afraid the answer is the man he believes it to be.

Lafayette clarifies, taking Hamilton’s place behind him, “We do not share him easily, but he desired strongly for you and, as he often does, he convinced us to allow you to know his body as we know it.” His hands fall gently to André’s hips, and each touch upon his deprived body feels like a new sensation in its entirety. Even through the layer of his breeches, the touch is hot and fevered and sharp - and he shivers in Lafayette’s hold. 

It is both as though he is viewing his body as a spectator, and as though he is living within his own flesh still, when Lafayette’s deft hands free his aching cock from his clothing. The touch, as soft and feather-like as it is, setting him alight. André knows better than to buck to the touch, fearing he will be denied if he does, but instead lets himself be guided forward until Lafayette is preparing him with quick, sharp strokes to coat him in oil. 

His breath comes sharp through his nose when he is pressed against the young majors hole - the hand between their bodies taunting the both of them. 

Benjamin is only as tight as could be expected - but it is compensated for with the burning heat that envelops André when he is finally,  _ finally,  _ permitted entrance to his sweet, yielding body. Slick and hot, Benjamin’s body takes him in so smoothly - as a steady yet firm hand upon his hips urges André forward in a smooth and ceaseless motion. 

The whimper is only audible once André is fully seated - a whine and keening whine that, for a moment, he cannot place. It drifts lazily around him, singing directly from the air instead of any sensible mouth. 

“Please,” it pleads, thick and strung with desperation, “please, sir, I - I need…” It fades and cuts off with another strangled sound when Lafayette nudges André’s hips forward once more - pushing him deeper into Benjamin.

“What is it you need, Benjamin?” His own voice is foreign to himself. It trembles and waivers in ways it hasn’t done before - he only knows it is himself by the movement of his lips and the scratch of his throat. 

The response should be pitiful, but it makes André gasp, gut clenching and his cock twitching where it’s seated deep inside of Benjamin: “You, sir, I need you.”

His hands are still shackled, mournfully, so he cannot grip into the sweat-matted locks as Lafayette did to make him wail, or grasp at his hips and feel the jarring force of his own thrusts. He grits his teeth against the roaring desire to do such - his fists clenching in their binds as he resists the urge to pull pathetically at them. 

Behind him, the Marquis shifts and strengthens his grip on his hips - giving a slow tug to pull them back before pushing them forward. André shudders, a full tremble that encompasses his whole body, at the idea of being used as such - as though he is nothing more than a barrier, a tool to penetrate this young major - the man who caught him, who entrapped him and brought him here. To this room, on the eve of his assured death. 

Even such a morbid realization doesn’t cease the pleasure that builds at the base of his spine or the warmth that coils hot in his gut. Lafayette’s hands guide him still, harder and faster as Benjamin pleads for more - each word from his lip a filthy incantation; a cry to be torn apart. André gives as best as he can with guidance - the evidence of Lafayette’s renewed arousal hot and hard against André’s body.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate gasps - his body burns under the strain of chasing his own completion. Someone strokes Benjamin but André cannot tell who as his hips piston and his peak appears right beyond his reach. 

When Benjamin comes again - André is not long to follow.

Permitted to drape over his body, his thick clothing soaked with sweat and surely uncomfortably rough against Benjamin’s bare flesh - he remains there until his softening cock slips away from that miraculous heat against his want. André pants in time with the beating of his heart and he tilts his head to see Lafayette, wiping his seed-stained hand on a handkerchief. Hamilton is far on other side of the room, his eyes full of mirth.

He cannot think when Lafayette must have ceased guiding him and his own carnal desires took over, he cannot think of anything.

His entire body is a numb, distant throb of dying heat and exhaustion. Hamilton hauls him up while Lafayette kneels to untie the young major. In the corner of the room, Washington steps forward and runs his fingers through Benjamin’s hair. His whispered words make Benjamin whimper, but André cannot hear them.

“You must return to your holdings now, Major André,” Hamilton says, once he’s tucked back into his breeches and his feet allow him to take a step.

“What of him?” He asks in sharp return, eyes unable to tear from Benjamin’s limp form as he curls - clearly pained - atop the table.

“He will be bathed, salved, and cared for, as he always is. I assure you, Major André, the hands he is in - he would not wish to be in any other.” Hamilton’s voice is curiously soft, and André wishes, for however brief a moment, that he could be apart of that ritual they’ve made for themselves.

He does not protest when he is led from the room, across the camp.

Already the sun threatens to rise on the horizon, and - only a few hours later, he is pulled from a restless sleep by rough guards and surrounded as he is marched to the gallows that await him. It must have been a dream, he tells himself as the noose fits around his neck and he looks down upon the crowd, some sneering, some horrified. 

And there, in the back, to observe the proceedings - stands General Washington. On one side, Hamilton with that same wicked smirk and the same gleam in his eyes. To his other, is Lafayette - a hand wrapped subtly around the waist of Major Tallmadge, who leans upon his shoulder. He meets his eye for only a moment and André can know - it was as real as anything else in this life.

He closes his eyes and the ladder is torn from beneath him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos give me life. I know this was nasty, you know this was nasty, lets not be ashamed, k?
> 
> Yell @ me about how I'm an awful person on [Tumblr](http://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/)


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